


Noctuary

by deathofaraven



Series: Prompt Responses [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Prompt Response, smooches, there are FEELINGS but gods help them if they know what they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathofaraven/pseuds/deathofaraven
Summary: Two men sit in the dark. They touch. Theytouch. They do not speak.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Series: Prompt Responses [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1002828
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	Noctuary

**Author's Note:**

> May I offer you some soft Sheriarty in these trying times?
> 
> \--
> 
> Prompt: noctuary (n.) - the record of a night’s events, thoughts, or dreams.

For the last three hours a small portion of Sherlock has wondered if he’s become a statue. His pulse, his breath—utterly meaningless, just like time. He can’t seem to find his voice. Across the bed, Jim is staring. The dim light pouring into the room from Sherlock’s window has made his dark eyes entrancing, all-consuming; Sherlock can’t make himself look away.

They haven’t spoken. It feels odd. Jim should be teasing him; Sherlock _should_ be taunting him right back. They remain still. The silence, this moment, balanced on a knife’s edge. Neither willing to knock it askew.

Sherlock studies his form as if Jim isn’t already seared into his mind palace, etched into the very foundations of it. He makes note of his hair and the casual nature of his clothes. Of the flickers of unnamable emotions behind his impenetrable mask and the way Jim’s gaze automatically drops to watch Sherlock’s hands whenever his fingers involuntarily twitch. He knows what Jim must see as he looks at him: tatty pyjamas and tangled hair, fascination pouring from him in waves. He’s not certain how much longer he can wait.

He allows a moment of hesitation. Watches as Jim registers it, meeting Sherlock’s eyes unflinchingly. Sherlock has never wanted to touch someone so badly that his _fingers_ ached for them, but he feels it _now_ —a tingling tug of want spreading through his fingertips, need spilling into his empty veins in a sharp throb.

Like a skittish cat, Sherlock carefully pulls himself up onto his knees. Slips slowly forward until Jim’s within reach. Stops.

They still don’t speak.

Jim stares up at him, eyes wide. Wondrous. He _wants_ ; it’s easy to see at this distance with only darkness and quiet breaths between them. It matches Sherlock’s own interest with such an intensity that he’s not entirely certain how they’ve managed to keep from crashing together after all this time. The stillness of the room is a mystery to him.

Something in Sherlock’s expression earns the ghost of a smirk from Jim. It’s fleeting, gone in an instant, but it’s enough.

He reaches out, thumb smoothing over Jim’s brow. Fingers softly slipping into his hair. Jim shudders lightly on an exhale, lips parting as his eyes involuntarily close. It’s a soft sound, barely audible, and something inside him seems to break in response. Sherlock drops his hands to Jim’s shoulders, fingers memorising the sturdiness of his build. He traces over his clavicles. The hollow of his throat. His Adam’s apple. Lingers just long enough to feel Jim’s pulse abruptly jump in response before slipping away to cup his jaw. Day old stubble prickles at his calloused fingers, but Jim’s lips are soft when he runs a thumb over them. His breath is only a soft pant.

Jim’s own fingers have been far from idle. Carefully exploring; grazing over his thigh and hip. Sliding under his shirt with near-reverent slowness to draw barely-there slivers of sensation against his sides. His fingers don’t feel steady.

It isn’t nearly enough.

Sherlock leans in until he can feel Jim’s breath against his lips. It draws a shiver from him. Makes him _ache_ inside. Twists his gut into knots that seem to settle and swell in his throat. He brushes his lips against Jim’s, the barest of delicate touches. He’s almost uncertain whether contact actually occurred until Jim attempts a laugh.

What comes out is an almost-desperate gasp, sounding somehow like a prayer: “ _Sherl—_ ”

He doesn’t give him a chance to even finish the word, crushing their mouths together in fervent demand. He can’t convince himself to pull away. It isn’t the gentle kiss he’d anticipated, but it _is_ somehow chaste and frighteningly softer for it. Sherlock feels the exact moment Jim seems to break. The willful tension vanishes from his posture in a soft groan of effort and he _slumps_ , hands coming up to bury in Sherlock’s curls, painfully tight as he all but clings to him.

One kiss fades into more: light, shivery touches that linger on his lips. Steal his breath away.

It eventually flows to a stop. Neither of them move from their too-close positions. Neither of them speak, though Sherlock can feel the questions hovering in the base of his throat.

Jim is unfocused, semi-pliant, when Sherlock pulls away. He doesn’t have a name for the emotion Jim is looking at him with, just that he feels it as well. A terrifying prospect that neither of them know what to do with. Sherlock doesn’t want to consider it.

Instead he kisses his forehead. Just once. Jim goes still in the wake of it—only his fingers continue to move, lightly twitching against his scalp. A question without words. Sherlock answers by pressing their temples together. Too close for barriers or hiding or anything more than resting face-to-face. Coexisting in the warmth of each other’s skin and the steady beat of their pulse.

He feels Jim sigh when he realises; a million responses lost to the breath between them. Jim chooses to relax into it. Sherlock’s lips pull into a faint smile as they lean into the touch. Pulses slowly calming. Breaths inadvertently shifting to match each other in a slow, sleepy rhythm.

They have been sitting together for a while now, barely visible in the dim light. Time has become meaningless. And they do not pull away.


End file.
